


flowers on the windowsill

by PenzyRome



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gilmore Girls Setting, Art, David Jacobs-centric, Diners, F/F, Found Family, Latino Jack Kelly, M/M, Slow Burn, because i do what i want!, i'll add more characters and relationships as we go, kath and newsbians will show up i swear, literally this shit lasts for more than a decade when i say slow burn i MEAN it, she/they buttons, sort of single dad davey??? kind of???, the jacobs siblings are jewish ofc but so is jack. i make the rules, yeah... here we go folks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:01:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27216838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenzyRome/pseuds/PenzyRome
Summary: "You know, if a stomach bug kills you because you've blasted your immune system to shit, I want it on the record that I tried to stop this.""Duly noted," Davey says, and grins when Jack reluctantly refills his cup. "You complete me.""Lucky me."or: a gilmore girls au in which davey parents his siblings and manages to drag jack with him along the way
Relationships: David Jacobs & Les Jacobs, David Jacobs & Sarah Jacobs, David Jacobs/Jack Kelly, Les Jacobs & Jack Kelly, Les Jacobs & Sarah Jacobs, Sarah Jacobs & Jack Kelly
Comments: 44
Kudos: 46





	1. two cups of coffee

**Author's Note:**

> so!! idk how this is gonna get updated. this is my comfort au and i write it whenever i want so dont get impatient fhskdhs. that being said, please enjoy!

Davey goes into the diner, admittedly, with the worst of intentions.

The only person taking orders and serving food seems to be in far over his head, there looks to be coffee, and there’s the faint smell of pancakes wafting out the door when a passerby opens it-- all ideal marks of a possible breakfast.

He rallies his troops: Les, only five years old, hungry, tired, and cranky, and Sarah, only eleven, more tense and worried than anything else. “Remember to smile at the waiter,” he reminds them, and Sarah gives him a painfully fake smile. He cuffs her on the back of the head, and she pushes his arm. “And be polite, remember that.”

He takes them inside, and they wait to be seated for nearly ten minutes-- there are several open tables, but the diner is filled with noisy hubbub and far too few servers, so no one manages to make their way over to help the Jacobs siblings.

Frankly, as cruel as it sounds, the situation is as close as it can get to perfect.

When a waiter eventually makes their way over to them, Davey pinches Les and Sarah, a silent reminder to act cute.

“Table for three?”

“Yes, please,” Davey says, and the waiter frowns down at Les.

“Booster seat for this guy here?”

“Yes, thanks.”

The waiter-- Jack, by his nametag-- nods, and he points towards an empty table near the window. “Alright, you can take that one.”

As they walk over, Sarah mutters, “He’s not nice.”

Davey shushes her, but he watches Jack out of the corner of his eye as Les and Sarah excitedly explore the menu. He seems more tired than mean, startling slightly every time someone calls for him, and his hand shakes visibly when he refills someone’s coffee cup. He can’t be any older than Davey, and it at once both reassures him and makes him a little sad-- part of him is glad he’s not alone in his despair, but the other part is dismayed that you can be a lost, stressed eighteen-year-old even in this dinky little town that the three of them have accidentally stumbled into.

A third part of him notices that the guy is, objectively, cute. He’s a little chubby, and his hair is wavy and just long enough that some of it could be pulled into a tiny ponytail. The sleeves of his flannel are rolled up to his elbows, his skin is a warm brown, and when he’s writing, he bites down on his bottom lip.

It’s not that Davey’s interested. He might be, were he not trying to dine-and-dash his way into at least one filling meal a day for his siblings, but that’s exactly what he’s doing, so he’s not interested.

But it’s worth noting. Jack-the-waiter is, from a purely factual standpoint, handsome.

When he comes back over, Les wants milk, Sarah wants orange juice, and when Jack’s eyes fall on Davey, he’s quick to say, “Two cups of coffee.”

“Two?”

“Two. Filled to the brim.” Jack raises a skeptical eyebrow, and Davey tries a smile. “Please?” That makes him huff out a laugh, and he shrugs one shoulder.

“One milk, one orange juice, two cups of coffee.”

“Thank you!” Sarah says, and Jack gives the three of them an odd look before he walks away.

“Davey,” Les says, “I need to pee.” Before he can even juggle ideas of how to possibly handle both of them at the same time, Sarah speaks up.

“I can take him to the girls’ room.” She points towards the door an old woman just walked through, and Davey nods hesitantly.

“Come back right after.” She nods, and starts to walk over with Les as he adds, “And wash your hands!” When they go through the door, Davey collapses his head into his hands, rubbing at the corner of his eyes. After a few moments, there’s a small cough.

“Hey, uh, I got your drinks.”

Davey jolts up, sitting back so Jack can set down two full cups of coffee, a little cup of milk, and a glass of orange juice with a bright yellow straw. “Thank you, I’m so sorry.”

“Rough morning?” Jack asks, but it doesn’t occur to Davey that he should respond for several seconds.

“Oh. Yeah, tough morning. Tough… while.” He takes a sip of his coffee, painfully aware of Jack’s eyes on him. As he sets the cup down, he blinks. “That is… a really good cup of coffee.”

“I try,” he says, and he doesn’t walk away. After a while of tense silence, he sighs. “Look, man, I know you’re not gonna pay for this.”

Davey tries his best to look both shocked and offended at Jack’s accusation. “What?” He looks painfully unimpressed by Davey’s performance, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I’ve run away before.” Davey swallows, and Jack continues, “I know what it looks like.” Sarah and Les come back out of the bathroom, and Jack’s fingers drum on the table, next to Davey’s second cup of coffee. “I’ll talk to you after you eat,” he says quietly as Les and Sarah start on their drinks and puzzle over their choices some more. “Okay, what do y’all want?”

Davey tries to reorder his thoughts, his grip around his mug’s handle still uncomfortably tight. “What’s kosher?”

“All of it.”

That makes him pause. “Do you know… what kosher is?”

Jack rolls his eyes. “I made the menu and I’m Jewish. What do you want?”

“Mickey Mouse!” Les declares, and it seems to almost tempt a smile out of Jack.

“Mickey pancakes?” Les nods. He looks to Sarah, and she seems to debate silently for one last second.

“French toast,” she says slowly, as if deciding moves on a battlefield. “With a fruit cup as the side.” She looks at Davey for confirmation, and then adds, “Please.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He raises one eyebrow at Davey, who is already folding his menu and stacking it with Les and Sarah’s.

“The oatmeal with berries, please. And no strawberries if they’re in there, I’m allergic.”

“Extra strawberries,” Jack says as he scribbles on his pad, “because they’re your favorite.” Davey purses his lips, but just then, Jack looks up from his pad, just enough so that their eyes meet, and the corners of his lips tip up, just barely teasing.

That’s the first time Jack ever smiles at Davey.

The rest of breakfast goes about as planned: Davey has to scrub syrup off of Les’s face, Sarah tells them both about her method for making sure every part of the toast gets buttered, and Les, upon seeing his Mickey pancakes, loses his little mind and rambles about cartoons for the rest of the meal.

Davey occasionally catches Jack looking at him in an odd, curious sort of way, but the second their eyes meet, he turns and busies himself with whatever he’s doing. It’s strange, but no more strange than giving someone you know plans to dine and dash a full meal.

As soon as they’re done, Sarah shoves napkins in her pockets and stands up, and Davey’s heart pangs at how she’s already so used to their system. He sets a hand on her shoulder and guides her back into her chair.

“It’s alright. We’re staying this time.”

They both look at him with confusion written all over their faces, but they don’t ask questions-- they know better than to ask questions at this point. He gives them some paper and pencils out of his messenger bag and lets them draw while he waits for Jack to come back over.

After about twenty minutes of them just sitting there, he starts to worry that Jack is planning on calling the cops or forcing them to pay.

Davey’s got enough for a couple more taxi rides to get as far away from home as possible, but after that, they’re shot. He doesn’t have the money to spare for a place to stay, or even this food.

Finally, Jack rushes over. “Sorry, things are crazy right now.”

Every table is still full. Don’t people in this town have somewhere else to be on a Sunday mid-morning?

“I noticed.” He casts a look over to his siblings, who are blessedly still engrossed in drawing. “When is your shift up?”

Jack looks confused, and then squeezes his eyes shut. A hand goes up to his hair, but stops just short of touching it. “Shit.”

“Language,” Sarah pipes up, and Jack winces, clearly guilty. When he speaks again, his voice is low enough that she can’t hear.

“Look, I run this place. The sign says ‘Sullivan’s’? That’s me. I’m Sullivan.”

“Jack Sullivan?”

“Used to be Sullivan. Now I’m Kelly.”

“Jack Kelly?”

“Yeah.” He sighs. “Point is, I don’t have a shift, ‘cuz this isn’t my job, I just do it ‘cuz we can’t afford to hire a waiter.”

Davey blinks, and after a moment decides the only safe response is: “Wow.”

“Yeah. So I’m not done ‘till there ain’t customers, and there’ll be customers ‘till maybe three, when people aren’t exactly looking for lunch or dinner. I can talk to you then.”

“Well, what are we supposed to do?”

“Did you have plans?” Jack asks, one eyebrow arched up, and Davey opens his mouth before he hesitates. “Didn’t think so. I’ll put y’all in a booth when one’s free so you’re good and comfy, I’ll get the kids some damn crayons, I’ll refill your drinks ‘till three, and then we’ll talk. Deal?”

He sticks out his hand, and Davey studies it for a moment. It’s dotted in burn scars, presumably from spilled coffee and hot plates, and his palm is calloused. There’s an indent on his middle finger from where a pencil must constantly rest, and his nails are clipped short and clean.

Davey grasps it and shakes. “Deal.”

Jack pretends to tip his hat and hurries off to another table. After a moment of watching him, still not quite sure of what’s happening, Davey waves his hand near the papers so Les and Sarah look up at him.

“Alright, so in a bit Jack’s gonna move us over to a booth so we can all be a little comfy, and he’s gonna bring you two some crayons to color your pictures with. We’re gonna wait here for a while, and then Jack and I are gonna talk about some grown-up stuff, okay?”

“What kind of grown-up stuff?” Les asks, breaking their questionless period. Tapping his fingers, Davey puzzles out an answer.

“He… knows a place we might like to stay.”

Both of them break into grins, and Davey’s stomach drops, knowing he’s said the wrong thing. “It’s just a maybe. And it might be a long ways away, so we might have to keep driving.”

That’s insurance, at least-- when they finally end up at some shelter or another, Davey can at least say it was the mysterious place Jack told them to go.

“What kind of place?” Sarah says, her eyes wide.

“I don’t know. That’s the grown-up stuff. Just draw and have some fun, okay?” They both nod and go back to their pictures, and Davey sneaks a nervous look at his phone’s battery.

Making it for the five days that they’ve been alternating between sort-of-stealing meals and sitting in cars is an achievement, but his phone is finally starting to crack under the pressure. He made a list of shelters and a few ultra-cheap hostels before they left, but they’ve all been either full or too close to home, and the calls have clearly been wearing down his battery.

He shuts it off again and takes a sip of coffee that’s just above room temperature by now.

A few minutes later, Jack comes over and ushers them quickly into a corner booth, tucked partially away from the rush and hubbub of the diner. He gives them one of the massive boxes of crayons with the little crayon-sharpener in the back, which thrills Les and Sarah to no end, and refills their drinks, which thrills Davey to no end: water for both of the kids, another cup of coffee for Davey.

After a while of feeling supremely bored, Davey takes a piece of paper and some crayons and starts to draw, exciting Les, who decides he wants to sit between Davey and Sarah to see what they’re both drawing. They rearrange themselves so Les is sitting in his booster between the two of them, and they all set out to create tiny works of art.

Les has drawn what look to be multiple sharks and a few dinosaurs, and Sarah has angled herself specifically so Davey can’t see what she’s working on, but she shows Les once or twice.

After a while, he forgets to notice.

Art has inevitably been in his life-- Esther is, after all, a seamstress. He can remember lessons from when he was little, her guiding his hand in patterns that she said would teach him how to draw anything he could possibly want to.

Unlike her, though, he hadn’t been interested in recreating sights, in babydolls or quilts or tapestries or cross stitched pictures. He had been drawn to color.

He doesn’t bother to take crayons with brown or black or tan colors-- he heads straight for electric limes and flamingo pinks and sky blues. First, he draws a cheerful yellow taxi in the middle, then the jagged lines of a hand pushing it along like it’s just a piece on a game board. All around the taxi, the world is exploding in color-- vibrant pink flowers, green trees reaching over roads and holding each other and showering leaves everywhere, blue sky as far as the eye could see. There are ruby-red birds in the sky, orange field mice running through the grass, and purple snakes weaving across tree roots.

In his head is Esther’s voice: “Where is the light, David? Look at the sun, feel how it shines. Where does the light glow?”

A crayon breaks in his too-tight grip, and Davey is jolted back to reality.

He remembers his siblings, still scrawling away. He remembers the bill he’ll have to argue their way out of, he remembers the diner they’re sitting in and the little scars on Jack’s hands.

Mustering up a smile, he asks, “Can I see your pictures?”

Les explains Sir Chomps, who is a shark but also an undersea knight who rescues sea turtle princes and princesses, and who can shoot lasers out of his nose. Davey listens attentively to every word, too aware of eyes that he can feel on him.

When he looks expectantly to Sarah, she hesitates and then shows him her picture.

“It’s like a fancy portrait. See the frame?”

“Yeah, it’s pretty. Is that us?”

“Yeah. And we’re dressed up.”

“We look very pretty.” That makes Sarah duck his head, and Davey smiles. “These are really good, both of you. We’ll keep them.”

He turns to get a napkin and rub crayon wax off of the side of his hand, but as he does, he finds the gaze that he felt on him-- Jack, watching from afar as he refills water glasses. Davey chances a wave, and Jack looks confused before he nods, seeming almost official, and turns away.

Replenished by refills of water-- Jack cuts Davey off after the third cup of coffee-- the three create themselves a little corner in which they are sheltered from the world, undisturbed by noise or passerbys or curious stares.

Around one, Jack wanders over again. “Y’all want lunch?”

Davey blinks, startled, and Jack nods, tiny and subtle. There isn’t a spare second for him to question any further before Les is saying as politely yet urgently as possible that yes, he’d like lunch, he’s just  _ starving. _

Desperate for a slice of control over the situation, Davey refuses menus. “Do you have some sorta sandwich?”

“We got turkey, roast beef, and veggies and cheese.”

“Turkey, please,” Sarah says, having hardly even looked up from a piece of paper she’s folding. 

“Turkey!” Les says, eager to copy any example laid out for him by a big sibling. After a firm look from Davey, he adds, “Please.”

Jack turns to Davey, tilting his head in question. “I’d like the veggies and cheese, please.”

“That rhymes,” Sarah says absentmindedly, and Jack nods.

“That it does. Three sandwiches coming up.”

They have lunch, and then Davey has to entertain Sarah and Les until the hours pass and people clear out and finally, finally, the diner only has them and a few stragglers. He watches as Jack sticks his head back into the kitchen and tells someone else to take over with orders, drumming his fingers on the table and trying to get his own story straight.

After a while, Jack wanders back out to their table. He cleared their plates a while ago, so it’s just them, their bags, their drawings, and a few glasses of water. His eyes, seemingly out of his control, flit down to glance at their papers, and then he wrenches his gaze back up to the three of them.

“Alright. We’ll talk upstairs.”

“Upstairs” turns out to be more Jack’s apartment than anything else, despite the tag on the door that reads, “Office of Francis Sullivan”. His apartment feels almost absurdly private, all one room except the bathroom, and Davey pointedly focuses on the spaces that feel forgivably communal-- the kitchen, the couch by the TV-- rather than his bed in the corner and the canvases stacked against the wall near an easel.

Sarah, to her credit, fixates on his bookshelf, an ancient thing that looks almost fixed to the wall. “Do you have any mysteries?”

Jack scratches at the back of his neck. “Those were mostly my pop’s, so I ain’t too sure. There’s some big art books, if you wanna take a look at those.” She nods quickly. “Bottom shelf on the right.”

In seconds, she’s settled with a massive hardback, sitting on the hardwood floor in front of the shelf. Jack looks worriedly down at Les, and Davey smiles despite himself. “Les, do you want to listen to some music?”

“Yeah.”

“I got a CD player,” Jack says. “Can he listen to Shania Twain?”

“I don’t see why not.”

In five minutes, both of the kids are settled, and Davey stacks their bags neatly by the door. Jack checks that the two are distracted and then pulls Davey into the bathroom. Once they’re inside, Jack fixes Davey with a critical stare, and the back of his neck prickles.

“What are you doing?” he finally asks, when the silence gets too overpowering. Jack blinks, obviously confused, and then winces, more to himself than to Davey.

“Sorry, this is weird. I’m recognizing that. This is just the only private place in the whole building.”

“Got it. It just seemed very, y’know, hookup-in-the-community-pool-showers.”

Jack laughs, but it seems stunted, and he runs a hand through his hair. “So do you wanna tell me what happened to you three?”

“Parents.” Jack waits for him to elaborate, but when he doesn’t, he sighs.

“Alright. Listen, you don’t have to tell me what you don’t want to, but I need you to know that I’m about to call in, like, a century of favors if I’m gonna help you. And if it turns out you’re just some punk that ran away ‘cuz your parents wouldn’t give you a trip to Europe, and you dragged your littles into your mess, I’m gonna kick your ass so hard you land on the opposite side of the Mississippi.”

He comprehends all that, and then shakes his head, feeling utterly hollow. “I promise.”

Jack exhales through his nose, rubs at the corner of his eye, and finally nods. “Okay. Are y’all going any further?”

“We were gonna go as far as we could get and then find someplace to stay wherever that was.”

“But if there was somewhere here?”

“If there was somewhere here, then we’d stay.”

Jack taps his hand like a metronome against his sink. “There’s a place on the edge of town-- Irving Hall Inn. I know the lady who runs it.” A pause. “You’re willing to work, right?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“If you can make yourself seem responsible, we might be able to get you some kinda job. She pays fair, and you’d get lunch on the job. They’ve got stuff for kids there, so those two could stay out of trouble while you worked.”

“You’d do that?”

“I guess.”

“This isn’t a joke?”

“I’m not the world’s biggest asshole. Do you wanna try it or no?”

“Yes. Yes, thank you.” He feels his shoulders slump ever so slightly. “Thank you so fucking much.” For a moment, he has to squeeze his eyes shut, but when he opens them again, Jack looks vaguely uncomfortable with being thanked so much.

“No problem, man.”

The diner closes at eight, and Jack drives them to the inn, resting right at the edge of town. It’s got a certain elegance to it, painted a fresh white that glows in the moonlight and surrounded by flowering plants that are illuminated by golden lights by the path.

Jack leads them right in, looking far more comfortable than Davey, and the man sitting at the front desk scowls at him. “Kelly.”

“Medda’s expecting me,” Jack says, and the man’s scowl ever so slightly lessens when he sees Sarah and Les standing behind Davey.

“She’s in her office,” he sighs.

There’s no need to ask for directions-- Jack leads them down a hallway and through a few turns, eventually stopping and assessing the siblings carefully, like he’s checking that they live up to some kind of standard. He nods after a moment and knocks on a door.

Not two seconds later, it’s opened, and Jack smiles, suddenly looking his age and not any older. “Hey, Miss Medda.”

Medda smiles back, tucking a pen behind her ear. “Hey yourself.” She raises an eyebrow at Davey. “So, you’re the boy?”

“I’m assuming so.”

She only then seems to really notice Sarah and Les, and her lips purse imperceptibly. “Jack, why don’t you take the kids down to the sitting room? Charlie might have dessert left over.”

Jack looks only slightly horrified by the prospect. “I-- uh, sure.”

Davey crouches down so he’s eye level with Les. “I’ll come get you two in just a bit, okay?”

Sarah nods, and she takes Les’s hand when they walk away. When he stands and straightens, Medda steps to the side to allow him into her office.

“I’m afraid there ain’t a second chair-- I don’t get visitors in here very often.” She sits in a dark red office chair and tilts her head. “Now, do you wanna tell me what happened to you, or should I pry?” Davey stays silent, and she says, “Jack told me there’s something with your parents. You’re, what, nineteen?”

“Eighteen.”

“You don’t have custody, do you?”

“No.”

“Do your parents?”

“Yes.”

She takes her glasses off and rubs at the bridge of her nose, the bright pink of her nail polish stark against her smooth, dark skin. “If your parents want them back, they’re either going back, or you’re set for a nasty time in court.”

“They don’t want them back.”

Medda narrows her eyes. “I somehow doubt that.”

“I just need to be able to support them. If I can prove I can, then they’ll give me custody, I know it.” He licks his lips. “Sarah and Les  _ wanted  _ to come with me, ma’am.”

A heavy silence sets in the room, and Medda closes her eyes for a while. Finally, “Have you ever had a job?”

“Not on payroll, ma’am, but I’ve cleaned and took inventory and all that for a business before. And I can tutor, and babysit. Anything you want me to do.”

She nods slowly. “Alright. You’ll work here. Those two can occupy themselves how they please as long as they don’t cause trouble. As long as you’re pulling your weight, y’all can stay here, and you can eat lunch and dinner with the rest of the staff.” Then, their eyes meet, and he almost wilts under her firm, worried gaze. “Those kids better be going to school come September, and I want you getting custody as soon as possible.” When she stops speaking, when there isn’t a “but” waiting at the end of the sentence, Davey’s breath leaves his chest, and he barely manages to speak.

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you so much, I swear you won’t regret this.”

She smiles softly. “Can you start tomorrow?”

“I can start right now.”

“Get some rest tonight. Work starts at nine, alright?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

That earns him an eye roll. “Medda’s just fine.”

“I’ll try to remember that.”

“You do that. Your siblings are probably down in the sitting room, it’s just off the side of the entryway. Spot can give you the key for 13B.”

“Thank you so much,” he says, still stuck in place. “Thank you.”

“Get a good night’s sleep,” she reminds him, and he leaves before she can change her mind.

He finds Sarah and Les sitting with Jack-- Sarah is sitting like a princess, her chin up, while Jack draws and Les eats a brownie.

“Hey, guys.”

Jack looks up first, and when he tilts his head in question, Davey nods a little. He sits down next to them, the weight of everything slowly starting to dawn on him.

“Do you like it here?” he asks them both, and Les nods, his mouth full. 

“The people seem nice,” Sarah says. “Charlie, the cook, gave us brownies. And everything looks like doll furniture.”

Davey has to push down a laugh when Jack’s brow furrows, clearly trying to decipher what that means to Sarah-- but, of course, Davey knows.

“So you’d like it if we stayed?”

Sarah’s eyes go wide. “Really?” He nods, and she beams. Davey turns to Les.

“Are there gonna be brownies?”

“Not every day, but you can have brownies sometimes.”

“Okay!”

“Okay,” Davey says.

They get their key and head to the room. Davey unlocks the door and lets Sarah and Les in, then stays by the door with Jack, who had followed along when they went searching for 13B.

“I owe you-- seriously, a million dollars. I owe you a million dollars.”

Jack snorts. “Yeah, you get right on that.” He sticks his hands in his pockets. “Just thought I’d pay it forward, or whatever. So get ready to do some good deeds some day.”

“Really, Jack. Thank you.”

He pauses at the sincerity of it, and then nods. “Is she giving y’all breakfast?”

"I don't think so."

"Listen, after this you've gotta stop expecting nice things from me."

"Okay?" Davey says, and Jack frowns like he’s debating slapping himself.

“If you guys come over in the mornings, I can give you breakfast. No charge.”

His mouth falls open. “No, I can’t. We’re not charity, really, this is already way too much.”

“Then don’t consider it charity. Consider it me not wanting to waste food.”

He swallows hard. On one hand, he still has his stubborn pride, despite everything-- he’s already taken much more than he’s comfortable with, because Les and Sarah need a roof over their heads and at least now he can work to earn it. On the other, they’re just kids, and they need breakfast.

“I’ll think about it.”

Jack blinks and immediately afterwards wipes the surprise off of his face, nodding. “Okay. See you in the morning, maybe.”

“Or maybe never,” Davey feels the need to add, and Jack rolls his eyes.

“Or maybe never.”

“Thank you.”

Once again, Jack is silent, and after a moment, he shrugs. “Sure.”

He walks down the hallway, and Davey turns into the room, locking the door shut behind him.


	2. black bean scramble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The siblings settle in, make new acquaintances, and have some questions answered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one goes out to the folks who have just suffered through family thanksgiving.. i tried to get this out in time to read after your brief panic attack break in the bathroom but alas.. ive got adhd this baby (smacks my brain) can only fit so much executive functioning  
> to non-americans.. happy friday heres a chapter

The first time that the siblings showed up for breakfast, Jack had seemed pleasantly surprised. Now, after two weeks of them showing up more often than not, they’ve fallen into a sort of pattern.

They come through the door, Jack looks up from wherever he is and waves. He makes his way over as soon as possible, finds them a table, and brings Les milk and Davey coffee. Sarah has a new drink order every day, because every time, she finds something wrong with the drink from the breakfast before. They’ll order breakfast, as healthy as Davey can convince them is still tasty, and Jack never brings them a check.

Recently, there has been a new addition to the pattern:

“Y’know you’re destroying your nervous system.”

“And I’m enjoying it. Coffee, please.”

“Sarah, do me a favor and don’t follow in your brother’s footsteps.”

“This is a very rude way to treat your customers,” Davey complains, and Jack rolls his eyes back so far Davey almost wants them to get stuck.

“I’m not counting any sorta monetary debt, so that means I can say whatever I want.” He flips open his pad, biting on his lip. “What do y’all want?”

While their food is cooking, a woman wanders up to them. She’s tall and thin, and her hair is done in tight curls that seem as if they were pulled from a different decade. “Are you the new boy at Medda’s?”

Davey nods cautiously and extends a hand to shake. “I am, ma’am.”

“Well, I just wanted to introduce myself. I’m Hannah, Medda’s a dear friend of mine and she mentioned that you might be around here.”

“It’s… nice to meet you.”

“Oh, you too! Now, I know all the whereabouts of this town, so if you need anything, you just ask.”

“Thank you.”

She leaves, and Davey frowns into his coffee. Hannah is fifth in a long line of people who have seen fit to just walk up and introduce themselves. It’s odd, particularly because Davey’s never found himself very interesting. At home or in the city with their parents, people would come up to Esther to talk about art, and people from their synagogue would talk with Mayer, but if anyone ever noticed Davey, it was as “Esther’s boy.”

He supposes that’s the way she wanted it.

But now, it’s like the newness of the siblings has made them far more fascinating than they really are. People take the time to meet them, and Davey doesn’t understand it.

It also makes him uneasy-- the more people know you, the easier you are to find.

He looks up to see Jack behind the counter, counting change in aggressive, stilted movements while Hannah talks-- not exactly with him, more talking  _ at  _ him than anything else. Davey tries not to eavesdrop, but he still hears something about “the spirit of it all”, and he forces his face into the most innocent expression he can muster when Jack comes back over with their food.

“I see you met Miss Hannah,” he says, deadpan, and Davey raises an eyebrow as he sets their plates down.

“I see you had a chat with her.” He looks down at his eggs, scrambled with grilled peppers and onions. “These look great, thank you.”

“No problem. And yes, I did.” He bats Les’s hands away from his hot bowl of grits. “Don’t touch that yet.”

“Am I getting any fun details? It looked tense.”

“If you want town gossip, go somewhere else,” Jack says, crossing his arms. 

“How do potatoes get fried?” Sarah asks, and he seems relieved at the change of subject but confused by it nonetheless.

“I don’t really know, kid, I failed chemistry.” He sighs and slumps his shoulders for a moment before he straightens back up. “Enjoy breakfast, guys.”

Davey’s busy right from the start of the workday-- right now, Medda has him doing whatever she doesn’t have someone else immediately ready to do. He cleans rooms, carries luggage, and serves food in the dining room while Les and Sarah wind up in the room Medda set up for activities, monitored by one of the other employees while they do crafts and read books and generally stay out of trouble. They usually eat lunch around eleven, but Davey gets his lunch break at twelve. He’s not sure what they’ll do come winter, but the weather is nice enough that he sits outside with some of his coworkers to eat lunch while Sarah and Les do what they please in the fresh air.

It only took a few lunches for Charlie Morris to become Davey’s steadfast mealtime companion.

Charlie is twenty, he's the rising star of the inn’s kitchens, and he’s been supposedly waiting for years for the current sous chef to step down so he can take their spot. He has sandy blond hair that he keeps carefully pushed back throughout the workday, and his skin, paler than Davey’s and rosy with sunlight, is positively covered in freckles. They’re all only a few shades darker than his skin, but they cover every inch of him like a sort of odd, speckled tan. His wit is sharp, his patience is admirable, his baked goods are the stuff of dreams; so, needless to say, Sarah and Les adore him.

The two of them are having lunch-- Charlie in his wheelchair, Davey sitting with his back against the wall-- when he asks, “So do you have a girl?”

Davey makes a bizarre noise somewhere between a cough, a laugh, and a snort. “Me? No.”

“C’mon, it’s not too ridiculous. You’re a sweet guy, you’ve got good angles to you.”

He swallows a bite of sandwich and licks his lips. It suddenly occurs to him, like it never has before, that some things don’t have to be secrets, not necessarily. 

“Well, for one, I’m not one for girls.”

One of Charlie’s eyebrows goes up, and then the other immediately follows. “Oh, I’m a dumbass.”

“No, you’re fine.”

“Nah, I’m-- Christ, Davey, me too, I should’ve known.”

Davey waves one hand. “I kinda tried to make people not know.”

“Ah.” There’s an uncomfortable pause, and then Charlie asks, “What’s for two?”

“What?”

“You said, ‘for one’. That’d imply a two.”

“Oh.” He takes another bite and considers his words carefully. “It’s just that, with everything, I don’t feel like it’s really the right time for me to date someone. There’s custody, and the kids, and they’ve gotta go to school, and I’m working full time-- it’s just a lot. Maybe if it was just me.”

“Yeah,” Charlie says, thoughtful. “If you ever wanna get into that, though, tell me. You’re a catch.” He seems to realize the connotations of his words. “Not for me! But I know some guys who would be way into you.”

“Thanks?”

“Nothing personal, really. Tall guys just freak me out, y’know? I’m already kinda at a disadvantage here.”

“That’s fair.”

They sit in comfortable silence together for a while, and then Charlie brushes his hands off against his jeans. “Alright, back to the grindstone.”

Generally, his job is a pretty good setup-- Medda’s a fair boss, he has someone to eat lunch with and a place to put his siblings-- but there is one significant downside.

That downside, of course, being Spot Conlon, the world’s least approachable front desk worker. A year or so older than Charlie, he stands at roughly five feet and two inches. He has a horrifyingly thick Brooklyn accent, his hair is buzzed close to his head, and he creeps the hell out of everyone around him.

“Jacobs,” he calls as Davey passes through the lobby. “Room 7A wants new towels.”

“What?”

“Folks in 7A came down and asked me for more towels.”

It should be noted that Davey has been warned, on multiple occasions, to not get on Spot’s bad side. It should be noted that Davey, like everyone else, is vaguely disturbed by Spot’s general existence.

On a separate but related plane, it should be noted that the frontal lobe of the brain controls decision-making and judgement. It should be noted that the frontal lobe is not fully developed until one reaches the age of twenty-five.

Finally, it should be noted that Davey Jacobs is eighteen years old.

In the spirit of complete honesty, it should be noted that even when his frontal lobe is finished developing, he lacks the exact portions of social aptitude, code-switching, and common sense needed to navigate this situation as anyone else would.

“Why don’t you get them?”

“Because,” Spot says, drawing the word out, “it’s not my job.”

“So you just let guests remain towel-less until I finished lunch.” At that, Spot’s jaw tightens.

“Every second you stand here is another second they wonder where their towels are.”

Davey’s mouth snaps shut at that, and he turns on his heel towards the laundry.

“Davey. Davey!”

He startles as a hand falls on his shoulder, and whips around to find someone only a few years older than him holding a hand out, as if to keep him from pouncing.

“Buttons?” he checks, and they nod.

“Your kid’s broken.” His heart drops, and then confusion sinks in.

“My kid? Which kid?”

“Boy kid.”

“Les?”

“Yes!” they say, their voice breaking slightly. “I don’t know how to handle kids.”

“Fuck.” He takes a deep breath, and on the exhale: “Fuck. Where is he?”

Les is crying in the sitting room, and Davey hisses under his breath, rushing to sit down next to him. “Hey, sunlight, hey. What’s the matter?”

“Too much,” Les manages, and when Davey looks back to Buttons, they just shrug.

“Too much of what, Les?” Les just shakes his head and cries harder. “Ears, eyes, skin, or head?” Davey asks gently, and Les points to his ears. “Okay, we can handle ears!”

He turns around to Buttons. “Can you tell Medda I’m taking my break early?” Buttons nods and turns, and Davey groans. “And I need some baby aspirin.”

Picking up Les, he smiles uncomfortably as an old woman frowns at them. “Where’s your sister?” he asks Les, and Les speaks up against Davey’s shoulder.

“Dinner table.”

“In the dining room, okay. Let’s find her, shall we?”

The next day, as the sun begins to set, Davey heads over to Medda’s office-- she said she wanted to see him, and he’s done just about every possible menial chore that could delay that meeting.

He knocks, and not even a half-second passes before she’s calling, “Come in!” When he opens the door, she looks up and smiles, showing her tooth gap and dimples. “David, hey.”

“Hi.” He’s unsure of quite where to put his hands, so he puts them in his pockets and crosses his fingers once she can’t see them. “Did you want to talk to me?”

“Oh, yes. Just about your schedule, nothing serious.”

“Alright?”

She points to a new addition to the office, a cushioned chair sitting in front of her desk. “You wanna take a seat?”

“Please.” After sitting, he folds his hands in his lap and fidgets while she looks over the papers in front of her.

“You said you’re Jewish, didn’t you?” He nods. “You want Saturdays off, then? I don’t want you working every day.”

“No, ma’am.”

Confused, she looks up. “At least part of the day? To go to service, or to spend time with your siblings?” He shakes his head. “Well, why not?”

“Because--” he chokes on his words for a moment, and is forced to remember that Medda already knows the gory details of just how strapped the siblings are for food. “Because we get breakfast at Sullivan’s, but it’s closed on Saturdays, and if I don’t work, then we don’t get lunch or dinner either.”

Her brow furrows. “Why don’t you just make something for them?”

“We don’t have money for food.” The words feel heinously dirty, and the feeling is only magnified when Medda becomes even more puzzled.

“Well, what are you spending it on, then? You don’t pay rent or utilities, and I know Jack feeds y’all for free, and the kids don’t go to daycare or summer programs.” It isn’t supposed to be an accusation, but it seems like one, and the back of Davey’s neck starts crawling with discomfort and guilt.

“We don’t have any money in the first place, not just for food.”

Something connects for Medda, and understanding dawns behind her eyes. She opens her mouth to speak, and then stops, pursing her lips delicately. Finally, she asks, “David, do you think you aren’t getting a paycheck?”

“What?”

“That’s the other reason I called you in here, to give you your check.”

“I--” he pauses, trying to compose himself despite the lump in his throat and the burning in his eyes-- “I’m getting paid?”

“Oh my Lord, of course.” She pushes one of her braids back behind her ear. “You’re my employee, not an indentured goddamn servant.”

“I get money,” he repeats.

“Yes, baby. It’s not a lot hourly, but it’s more than minimum wage and you work a lot.” She holds out an envelope, and he takes it delicately, like it might explode or burn up in his hands. “So, do you want Saturday off?”

He nods, scarcely able to believe his own senses, though they have yet to fail him before. “Yes, please.”

“Guess what I have!” Davey crows the moment he sees Jack. Already rolling his eyes, Jack points to the counter and the barstools lined up in front of it.

“If we’re talking, you gotta sit up there instead of tailing me around the place.” Davey helps Les up onto one of the barstools, makes sure that Sarah is situated, and then turns to Jack, who’s pouring coffee.

“Alright, now guess what I’ve got.”

“A beau,” Jack says dryly.

“No. Guess again.” He drums his hands impatiently.

“You’re really excited about this, huh?” Davey nods, and he sets a coffee cup down in front of him. “Milk, Les?”

“Yeah!”

Jack turns around to the fridge, and as he opens it, he offers, “Did you get a million bucks from a mysterious benefactor?” 

“A benefactor?”

“I read  _ Great Expectations _ , I know a couple words. So no million bucks?”

Davey shakes his head, and Sarah says, "You're closer!" as if his pride has been wounded by a wrong guess.

“An elephant that’ll take you here every morning,” he says in a deadpan, and Davey scowls at him playfully over his coffee.

“Now you’re just mocking me.”

“Yes, I am.” He puts the milk back in the fridge and hands Les his cup. “Sarah?”

“Lemonade, please.”

When Jack comes back with her cup and sets it down, he leans forward against the counter. “I’ve got paying customers here.” His voice is tinted with impatience, but the edge is tempered by the quirk of his lips.

“So you want to know?” Davey asks, just to check.

“Please.”

“Fine. I got a paycheck!”

Jack pauses and then nods. “It has been two weeks, huh? Good for you.”

“Nobody’s appreciating my news nearly enough," he says, unfolding Les's napkin and placing it in his lap.

“Hey, say it again and I’ll be peppier.”

“No, it’ll be weird.” Jack hums in agreement. “Can I get the black bean scramble, please?”

Throughout breakfast, they share casual chatter whenever Jack works behind the counter. Les and Sarah fumble over each other to tell him about the books they’re reading while he counts change at the cash register. Warming up muffins in the toaster, he listens idly while Davey narrates his grievances with Spot, and then lists his own as he refills salt shakers.

When Jack winds up back behind the counter, Davey holds up his coffee cup. “Can I get a refill, please?”

Jack scoffs, tossing his notepad next to the coffee machine. “You’re killing yourself.”

“I said please!”

“A new pot’s brewing right now, be patient.”

“Ugh, fine. Sarah, Les, restroom?” Les nods, but Sarah shakes her head. Before Davey can even take his eyes off her, Jack says, “I’ll watch her, don’t worry.”

“What am I gonna do?” she asks, vaguely indignant, and Davey finds himself sure that they’ll be fine for a few minutes.

When he and Les return, Sarah’s staring at her toast while Jack argues viciously with a middle-aged man. He’s somewhere in his fifties, thin and stiff as a rail, and horrifically persistent even as Jack cuts him off.

“--I don’t wanna hear any more of it.”

“I just think you should be considering how much more money you’d make if you were open Saturday! Think of how a closed-off appearance must drive away tourists!”

“What tourists, Joe? Are you getting a big out-of-town crowd? ‘Cause I sure ain’t.”

“Not now, but if the town had more to offer--”

“Then why aren’t you open Sunday?” Jack counters, throwing his dishrag down on the counter and crossing his arms.

The man blusters about for a moment. “Well, Sunday services and family duties are--”

“How about this, you keep your schedule and I’ll keep my schedule and I’ll pick up your sloppy second customers on Sunday when they realize you make your bagboys police them around the place!”

“Young man, you are  _ far  _ out of line!”

“Why don’t you go make a goddamn neighborhood action committee about it?” Jack snarls, a vicious edge to his voice that Davey’s almost afraid of. The man purses his lips, looks about, and sniffs.

“I’ll be back.”

Jack calls after him, “Buy something next time!” Ringing cheerfully after the slam of the door, the little bell seems almost mocking, and Jack seethes meaninglessly for a moment, picking his rag back up and scrubbing ferocious circles into the nearby surfaces. Davey comes to realize that he hasn’t moved away from the bathroom door, and he tugs Les back towards the counter, moving as hesitantly as he would were he approaching a lion in a trap.

With a loud huff, Jack discards his towel into the sink, and the anger seems to leave his body. All of a sudden, he seems monumentally exhausted, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

“I’m so sorry,” he says to Sarah, and then notices Davey and Les returning. “I’m so sorry,” he repeats for them. Davey helps Les onto his seat, and his brow furrows as he tries to convey the proper amount of concern.

“Are you okay?”

“That was Joe Pulitzer,” Jack sighs in lieu of an answer. “He’s, uh.” Casting a quick glance to the kids, he purses his lips. “He’s something.”

“I can see that.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence as Jack refills his coffee, and it finally breaks when Sarah declares, “He’s a dick.”

Davey chokes on hot coffee, and hacks out several coughs that bring tears to his eyes. “Sazzy, you can’t say that about people.”

She frowns in her delicate, peculiar way, and then says the word that always condemns Davey to a long conversation: “Why?”

“We’ll talk about that on the walk back to the inn,” Davey says quickly, and he gulps down the rest of his cup. “Thanks for breakfast, Jack.”

“Thanks for not slapping me for swearing in front of Sarah.” Jack’s voice is low and quiet enough that neither of the kids notice the comment, and Davey smiles.

“See you tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” Jack agrees.

That evening, after Spot calls Sarah a miserable blight on his wellbeing, she and Davey put together a rulebook.

Whether it be the way she’s built or the way she was raised, Sarah deals best with rules. The rules she learned were that of a setting, and a family, that thrived on rules. As such, any guidelines, parameters, or specifics make every situation all the more clear for her.

She doesn’t care about geometry or gravity, and she doesn’t even care to always follow the rules she knows.

But she likes to know them, and without them, it’s hard for her to know where she’s gone wrong. So, Davey sits her down after dinner and they put together some Spot Rules. They’re primarily basic, like not asking him about his home, not asking him who he was on the phone with, and not asking him about whatever he’s working on at the moment.

They kill two birds with one stone, though, because while Sarah gets rules, Davey gets to talk. He gets to run through each scenario, each encounter, and dissect until he understands, until each problem is individually pursued and solved.

While the blurred edges of Sarah’s world become sharper and more distinct, it’s as if the black-and-white of Davey’s world pops into color.

“When I asked him about the fair in town, he didn’t mind,” Davey says. “That was during work. During lunch, I asked him about upcoming reservations, and he didn’t mind that, either.”

“Tentative rule,” Sarah decides after a moment of consideration. “It seems possible, but shaky. Maybe something like, ‘He likes to be distracted from the task at hand’?”

“More like he doesn’t like to be reminded of it.”

She writes that down on the notepad Davey took from the front desk. “So that goes under tentative rules about conversation?”

“Yeah. You know how to spell that, right?”

“Tent-ay-tee-eye-vee-ee?” she sounds out, and he nods.

“Good job. That’s enough for tonight, I think.”

Normally, it takes Davey a while to banish his thoughts far away enough for him to sleep. That night, though, he’s out in seconds.

When tomorrow arrives, they sit at the counter again, and Davey works on a to-do list while Sarah and Les talk with each other and with Jack.

So far, he has to take Les to the doctor, get custody, find a synagogue, get Sarah and Les enrolled in school, set a budget, find someone in town willing to babysit-- or is Sarah old enough to babysit Les?-- and get them all library cards. Sarah needs new shoes, Les needs a jacket when fall hits, and Davey probably needs a “Parenting for Dummies” book.

And, on the most selfish note, he needs to get his hands on some art supplies before his brain explodes. He tries usually to refrain from dramatics, but he feels like he’s dying somehow-- there’s the pressing, painful weight of unused energy and ideas in the back of his brain, and his hands are itching to do something other than clean and make to-do lists. 

As Jack sets down a plate in front of him, he glances down at the list and comments, “Busy plans.”

“You’re telling me. Hey, can I borrow a couple crayons?”

“What, is your to-do list color-by-numbers?” Davey’s brow furrows, and Jack shakes his head. “Never mind. Need to get something down?”

He groans. “Yeah.” Jack crouches down to rustle through the odds and ends under the counter, and Davey explains, “I didn’t bring any supplies with me, which I probably should’ve thought through better. There’s no space in our room, anyways.” Jack sets a box down in front of Davey, and he nods in thanks as he takes a bite of toast.

“The bookstore near the inn sells pretty good colored pencils,” he suggests, and Davey sighs, rubbing his knuckle in circles against his jaw.

“This is gonna sound dumb, but I never learned how to use them.” Jack raises one eyebrow, an obvious question. “My…” Davey pauses. “Esther, she taught me art. She was big on texture, so paints, yes, pencils, no.”

Jack nods slowly, and then says, “Huh.” He leaves it at that, and it occurs to Davey to explain:

“Esther’s my mom.”

“I assumed that one.” He nods again, oddly pensive. “You want hot sauce for your eggs?”

“Oh, yes, please.”

"Question," Sarah warns Jack, and he straightens his back.

"Shoot."

"Why did he want you to open on Saturday?"

"He?" Jack bites the inside of his cheek, and then says, "Oh, Joe? Pulitzer?" She nods, making him wrinkle his nose, deep in thought. "Good question."

"Thank you!" she says, smiling so infectiously that Jack huffs and gives her a faint grin.

"He likes to be in control of things, the town, all that. So, obviously, he doesn't like me."

"Because you're hard to control," Sarah says, and Jack clicks his tongue. "But he's closed Sunday, you said."

"Yes, but Christianity's normal." Davey coughs under his breath, and Jack goes back. "He thinks Christianity is normal." Sarah nods, understanding, and then Jack tilts his head to the side. "Hey, kids, can you, uh." Shooting a frantic look at Davey, he says, "Do… something?"

Finally catching on, Davey says, "Draw me a picture of Pulitzer." He pushes over the box of crayons, and Sarah and Les pull their paper napkins off their laps to use as paper. Jack seems confused but redirects his attention to Davey anyways.

"Okay, so weirdest part about Joe: he's Jewish."

"I thought you said you wouldn't give me town gossip."

"Well, I changed my mind," he says, low enough so as to not distract anyone. "Focus before I change my mind again."

"He's Jewish?" Davey repeats.

"Yeah, his parents, grandparents, too. Practicing for the whole time I knew him 'till he got married about a decade ago. His wife's Christian, he converted, and now he acts like he doesn't know Shabbat from Shavuot."

"Wow."

"Wow is right." Jack leans his elbows against the wood counter. "How're the crayons treating you?"

"Oh, very well." The bell on the door rings, and Jack’s face drops.

“I’d better work,” he says after a moment, and Davey looks up from the bright green houses and beige plants already spreading across his to-do list.

“Only if you want to make a living.” He tries to keep his tone mild-mannered, but when Jack scowls at him, he can’t help but smile, sly and private.

“Wish me luck,” Jack grumbles, and he sets off.

“Luck!” Davey calls, but he’s already long gone.

Come Thursday, the pressing weight of Davey’s need to create has only grown, draping across his shoulders like a lead sweater. He needs to cover a canvas in red paint and work from there, to treat anger as the basis and then create something from that. 

All this to say that he’s gotten a letter back from his parents. Les and Sarah are fast asleep, so he’s using a tiny flashlight to read it in order to not wake them. It’s not as if he needs much more light than that, though, because the letter is horrifically brief.

_ David, _

_ Please reach out to our lawyer-- we trust you still have his address. We are willing to discuss terms. _

_ Signed, _

_ Esther and Mayer Jacobs _

25 words exactly. One syllable short of two haikus. Davey has tried to quantify the letter in every way he possibly can, but whichever angle he looks at it from, it still seems far too small.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright some quick background-- joseph pulitzer, as a Real Historical Figure, was jewish and hungarian. he married into the episcopalian church and didn't tell his wife about his heritage until after they were married. at that point in history, then, his kids wouldn't be counted as jewish, since jewish law determined kids as jewish only if their mother was. reform judaism, the denomination that jack and the jacobs siblings are part of in this universe, now accepts kids with jewish fathers and non-jewish mothers as long as they've been raised jewish. so yknow. some background info! if any jewish folks have info they want me to add in or correct, please tell me! i'm always looking to learn more  
> anyways, that's chapter two! next up you can expect custody disputes, sibling bonding, more new faces, and.. idk. still figuring this out as i go.  
> in all seriousness, to everyone who had to deal with some uncomfortable shit for thanksgiving, whether it's exposure to covid you didnt know was coming, family issues, your relationship with food, whatever-- i'm with you, i know it feels like shit but the day's over. if youve got some money to spare go check my tumblr (@penzyroamin) for some places where you can donate to/support native american tribes and families year round  
> also please rb my post for this fic! its got a funky little aesthetic and id like people to know this fic exists! far less important than the last two things but yknow... this is the shit i do. if you liked this chapter, please tell me! it fuels me like kids clapping fuels disney fairies.  
> i love u, stay safe, stream good news by megan thee stallion <3

**Author's Note:**

> thank u for reading my dumbass au i appreciate it  
> i'm on tumblr @penzyroamin, if you wanna head over there, see my random thoughts, and perhaps rb the cool aesthetic post i made for this fic!!! have a good day yall <3


End file.
